Restless
by Svartormr
Summary: Gil suffers for his sins, after "Play with Fire". In response to Drakkenfyre's "Make Grissom suffer!" challenge.


CSI and its associated characters are the property of whoever they are the property of, not me. But don't worry, I'm not making any money from this.

  


Comes right after "Play with Fire"

  


For Drakkenfyre. She inspired me. To play with someone – painfully. :)

  


Restless

by Svartormr

  


A night off duty. Last month's "Entomology in Forensics" beside his bed. 4:30 AM. And he couldn't sleep.

Gil Grissom contemplated the far right corner of the ceiling. The house creaked gently in the wind. Somewhere a siren broke the quiet.

After a while, everything faded to silence. Then he fancied a ringing in his ears – low at first, then it became more distinct. Gil thought to speak out, to drive back the lack of sound, but he held his tongue, his thoughts churning. The ringing became definite - until, at length, he found that it wasn't within his ears.

He felt faint. His mind turned to details of insect species life-cycle timings with variations due to temperature and season. The sound increased – a low, dull, quick sound – much like a watch enveloped in cotton. A watch? His was electric – and he had left it in the kitchen. He gasped for breath. Thoughts chased trivial details of excruciating minutia. He arose from the bed and paced the room to and fro with heavy strides, reviewing in his mind the last ten cases he'd worked, describing them to the air; but the noise steadily increased. He foamed – he raved – he swore! But he heard himself not – just the noise, continually increasing. It grew louder – louder – louder! The horror! The horror! It was agony! He felt he must scream or die! – and now – again – hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! –

He shrieked! Strength left as he collapsed onto the bed, darkness enveloping him. It was the beating of his own heart.

  


  


A cold sweat coated his skin when Gil returned to consciousness. Not even 45 minutes before the shift started. Weak, he groped for his clothes and keys. Staggering into the kitchen, he found the automatic coffee pot cold, electronic death having claimed it.

Late, he found a note from Eckley - "Is this the apocalypse?" Gathering the open cases, he went to the briefing room.

Routine was his salvation. But he felt something different. There was his team, the best and brightest. But something was wrong, in a cold hopeless way.

"Catherine, you and Nick take the body in the desert. Warrick, the casino room DB. Sara, you have the cop found dead in his car on the north side, looks like a heart attack. Any questions?"

They split up, going to work. He stared at his papers. Raising his sight, there was just Sara left, reading and making notes. She stood.

"Sara – "

"Yes?"

His thoughts twisted in a whirlpool of confusion. His tongue searched his mouth, questing for words.

"Yes?" Sara repeated, her eyes possessing a certain focus. He remembered that look from the most difficult of cases.

"I'm going now." But she stood her ground.

"Goodbye." Sara said, and walked out of the room.

  


  


Sometime the morning after, he came awake violently, without knowledge of who he was. Clawing at the bed covers, Gil gasped and shook; slowly, his personality returned from somewhere, at least in part.

Closing his eyes, he saw her, shining hair, gleaming eyes, intelligent smile.

He desired her. He wanted her. Reaching down, he grasped himself, hanging limply.

Stroking, he sought response. But there was no cooperation.

Pain and despair danced in the corners. His hand movements became frantic. He rubbed at the base, trying to summon something; his free hand tore at the sheets.

Blood pounded in his head and nowhere else. The clock showed over an hour had past. He stroked harder – harder. Nothing – until a strangely cold orgasm possessed his genitals and nowhere else.

Gasping air, clammy semen drying on his leg, Gil felt a hollowness within. Sometime later, darkness returned.

  


  


Late again. "Even I'm worried about you. Do you want to talk?" said Eckley's current message.

During the briefing, Gil felt as if pieces of glass were stuck in his side, cutting with every breath. He struggled through his duties.

The voices of the team came in and out of notice. Then he heard Sara across the room talking to Nick. "Yea, tomorrow's my night off. I'm going to a movie with a friend."

He felt leaden, not wanting to rise.

"Gil."

It was Catherine. "You look terrible, Gil. Go home. And see a doctor tomorrow. We can handle it."

  


  


The examination room felt cold. Gil hadn't awoken last night, but sleep had provided no rest. He'd dreamt that he had been chasing a dark-haired woman in the woods. Running as fast as he could, his lungs burning, he couldn't gain on her. She'd just steadily walked on, always out of reach. Coming to a fork in the path, she'd gone right. Following, he'd stumbled over roots and torn his legs upon thorny bushes. Falling, he'd thrashed about, unable to find his footing. She was looking back at him, sadness in her eyes. Then she'd turned away and was lost in shadows.

"Mr. Grissom, my name is Dr. Flocks. As I mentioned earlier, I have a medical student who'll be sitting in on our session. Here she is – Ms. Yeung. I see you have an existing condition - otosclerosis – but you told the nurse you don't think it's that. So, what brings you to see us?"

Gil took a deep breath. "The last few days, I haven't been myself. I haven't been able to sleep. I've awoken after a few hours, unable to sleep further. Lying in bed, I get feelings of panic, for no reason. This suddenly ends with loss of consciousness. When I have been able to sleep, my dreams have been – disturbing. And not restful."

"Anything else?" asked the doctor.

Grissom really didn't want to say. But he felt he had to. "I can't seem to get an erection since this started."

Both of them raised a single eyebrow. The doctor continued. "Not to say that it's the cause, but how's the stress in your life this week?"

After a moment, Gil replied, "No more than usual."

"Hmmm. Ms. Yeung, what do – "

Everything went silent for Gil. Struggling, he couldn't read their lips – he couldn't remember how. He felt faint.

Then sound returned. "And now we'll start with the physical exam. Lie back Mr. Grissom."

Gil felt distant from his own body. The doctor and the student alternated, listening to his chest, feeling his stomach. Then they went lower. A sharp intake of breath from the woman brought Grissom back.

Both of them were staring at his groin. He looked down.

There was an enormous boil on his penis. His guts twisted.

"Mr. Grissom! Wake up!"

"What?!"

The doctor looked worried. "You passed out before we could start."

Gil was feeling sick, but he had to look. Useless it lay there, but normal it looked.

The doctor examined him, and had the student draw seven vials of blood. "I don't want you driving. We'll call a cab to take you home. Perhaps you should have a friend over to watch you."

  


  


The kitchen clock sounded like a tiny sledgehammer with every tick. What's more, the intervals between seemed to vary – sometimes short, sometimes taking forever. He'd slept all afternoon. Waking, he'd thought over the last week. Filling with nervous energy, he wanted to do something. Something different.

The phone rang. "Grissom."

"So, how'er you feeling?" It was Sara.

"Better. Restless."

"How about dinner? A movie?"

Gil inhaled and held his breath.

"I'd love that, Sara."

  


  


  


  



End file.
